The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(65)

Usually. But she was painfully aware that none of that mattered here. Her rank would afford her little protection with these women. They didn’t care who she was, they only knew what she was: English, a hostage, and the sister of the man who was probably the most hated in Scotland.

A third woman had joined the first two by the time Rosalin drew close enough to hear them. Of course they were speaking in Gaelic, so she couldn’t understand a word. From the way the two other women deferred to Deirdre, however, Rosalin guessed that she must be in charge.

She was older than she’d appeared at first glance. At least a good handful of years beyond Rosalin and the other two girls, who appeared closer to her own two and twenty. She was prettier, too, than she’d realized, possessing the kind of bold sensuality that Rosalin could never hope to emulate. With her dark hair and eyes, high cheekbones, and wide mouth, Deirdre’s features were sharp—almost exotic-looking—making Rosalin suddenly feel drab and uninteresting by comparison.

And then there was her figure. Rosalin wrapped her plaid around her chest self-consciously. She could never hope to compare in that arena. Buxom and curvaceous were putting it mildly.

The two younger women were also brown-haired, albeit lighter in complexion and eye color, but not as fair of face. There was a sullen, downtrodden look to them that spoke of hardship. Deirdre had it as well, but hers was better hidden behind the sharp edge of maturity. There was little this woman hadn’t seen, and Rosalin didn’t know whether to pity or envy her for it.

The three women must have been clearing the dishes, as a stack of used trays, trenchers, goblets, and pitchers had been deposited on one of the worktables. Two large tubs of water set out next to it suggested that they were about to start washing.

Rosalin came to a stop in front of the table opposite them. She looked down at the dirty dishes, a wry smile turning her mouth. “It seems I’ve missed the meal.”

She assumed they would speak English, but the blank expressions and awkward silence that followed made her wonder.

Finally, Deirdre responded. “Fetch the lady something to eat, Mor,” she said to one of the girls at her side. Then to Rosalin, she said, “The cook has just taken in a few more trays. If you like, I will have Mor bring it to you there.”

Her tone was more matter-of-fact than friendly or deferential, but free of the malice or resentment Rosalin had feared.

Rosalin shook her head. “If it isn’t too much trouble, I think I will take it back to my tent.” A loud roar emitted from the Hall behind them. “I should not wish to disturb their celebration.”

“They are not celebrating—no more than any other night when ale and whisky are plentiful.” She studied Rosalin’s face with a scrutiny that made her wish she could read minds. “But you are probably right. They are not the most reasonable in this state.” Rosalin took that to mean her Englishness would not be appreciated—or rather, would be even less appreciated than normal. Deirdre eyed her askance. “Iain is not fetching your meals?”

Rosalin shook her head. “Robb—” She blushed, and quickly corrected, “The captain has given me permission to move around the camp.”

Deirdre lifted a brow at that. “He has? Hmm.”

Rosalin didn’t know what that “hmm” meant, but it didn’t seem as if she agreed with Robbie’s decision.

Rosalin tried to explain. “I threatened to die of boredom, which would make me quite useless as a hostage.”

The faint hint of a smile lifted one corner of the other woman’s mouth. “You do not need to defend him to me, my lady; the captain makes his own decisions. I would not think to question them.”

Rosalin was aware of a subtle undercurrent and realized Deirdre was probably referring to other decisions as well—such as the one that had taken him from her bed.

Feeling a tightening in her heart, Rosalin was suddenly anxious to leave. In spite of the woman’s unexpected equanimity, she was painfully aware of the man who was between them. The man Deirdre had had, but Rosalin…never would.

The truth hit her with a blow. She understood what Deirdre must have known from the first. Deirdre didn’t resent her because she didn’t fear her. I’m not a threat to her. Rosalin might have distracted him temporarily, but eventually she would go, and when she did…

Rosalin saw her thoughts mirrored in the woman’s eyes. When she did, he would go back to Deirdre’s bed.

Her stomach turned, and it took everything she had to hold back the hard press of tears that sprang to her eyes. It had taken Robbie’s mistress to make her see what was so obvious. There could never be anything meaningful between them. She was temporary. A means to an end. When he’d exacted what payment he could from her brother, she would be sent back and undoubtedly never see him again.

Fortunately, the girl—Mor—chose that moment to return with a small tray of food. Rosalin took it from her and recovered her composure enough to thank her. “I will return the tray when I am finished.”

“The morning will be soon enough,” Deirdre said absently, already turning her attention back to the stack of dishes in front of her.

Rosalin started to walk away with her tray, but then turned back. “I should like to help while I am here. If you think of anything I can do.”

The girl who had been silent while Rosalin spoke with Deirdre said something to the other women in Gaelic. By her tone, Rosalin guessed that it wasn’t very nice. Mor covered her smile with her hand, but Deirdre said something sharply back that sobered both girls quickly.